Day 8: Warner Springs to Mike Herrera's backyard, 18 miles
Statistically, a thru-hiker is most likely to quit in the first week. I can understand why. The glamorous vision of walking cross-country that some folk might have nursed from the comfort of their homes withers and dies under the desert sun. Then there's blisters, and injury. Before setting out, Paul volubly and repeatedly expressed his doubt that he--with his laundry list of damaged bits--would make it through the first week. By day eight, it was pretty evident that he was doing fine and it wouldn't be long before he'd outpace me. He's doing great. As for me--for all of my and my family's confidence in my ability to tackle an enormous undertaking like a thru-hike, because why the hell not, there's still a palpable stigma out here surrounding the solo female hiker. Not a lot, I'm glad to say, but you can almost smell the dismissal from certain quarters. I have nothing of the lean, sporty, REI-minted appearance; I don't "look the part," as Paul does, and fairly--all together now--I don't really know what I'm doing! So for our respective reasons, I think we were both pretty proud of ourselves for having made it to day eight. A minor milestone.
That doesn't mean we're guaranteed to get to Canada, of course. The attrition rate among thru hikers, though difficult to determine with any precision, is high. At least 50%.
It's interesting, to me, how often thru-hikers invoke statistics; but then again, I wonder if we're driven to it by the fears of non-hikers around us. The man at the deli, the woman ar the post office. Anything could happen! How likely that we'll be eaten by a bear? Struck by lightning? Bitten by a snake? And the whole time the real threats--bad hygiene, dehydration, money, trouble in off-trail life, and most importantly, the contents of your own mind--slip quietly under the radar. As a solo female hiker, I've had a lot of people ask if I'm not afraid, or--more obliquely--if my mother isn't afraid for my safety. I tell them, truthfully, that I'm very rarely alone--literally hundreds of hikers are out on the trail right now, and it's highly unusual to go more than an hour without seeing one of them. We're all walking the same narrow path. If you have a problem, someone is bound to be along shortly--very different from some hikes I did in Alaska! Equally truthfully, I say that I feel safer hiking the PCT "alone" than driving down the highway, or walking through some parts of some cities at night. It's such a strange question, safety. Who do they suppose is keeping an eye on me on an ordinary day, when I'm not hiking? Hey, world? I LIVE alone. I buy groceries alone and chop vegetables with sharp knives alone. I eat in cafes and visit bookshops alone. I ride airplanes and buses alone. I talk to strangers. The skill set that any woman on the planet, single or otherwise, needs to navigate the terrifying terrain of human civilization is--as far as I can tell--exactly the same as the set one needs to hike alone. Use your head. Listen to your gut. Find the good people and ask them for help if you need it--because there's lots of them, and they're willing to help, believe it or not. So much of the journey is fueled by faith and good luck. I'm not nearly as afraid of the rigors of the trail as I am afraid of having to quit. Because what then?
On our nearo in Warner Springs, while I was trying to catch up with the Internet, I discovered that the authors of Wandering the Wild, one of the trail blogs I follow, had to abandon their Appalachian Trail thru-hike. Shutterbug and North Star hiked the PCT last year. I relied heavily on their blog as a resource for information on gear, food, dry season strategy, even how to maintain an account of the journey. These people are young, fit, and experienced. There seemed to be no way they could fail. Yet they were sidelined in ways they could not have prepared for--damp climate, a mold allergy gone crazy, resulting in shingles, of all things--and they had to leave the trail. It's humbling to see that it can, and does, happen to anyone. But it's also heartening to see that this kind of journey takes place one day at a time, and having to quit isn't he end of the world--it doesn't invalidate those days of your life or the miles you traveled. They still belong to you. HYOH. It was a good reminder.
April 29, 2013
April 28, 2013
Some Like It Hot
Day 5: Rodriguez Spur to San Felipe Hills, 16.5 miles
Day 6: San Felipe Hills to Barrel Spring, 16.6 miles
Day 7: Barrel Spring to Warner Springs, 8 miles
Hikers are warned to leave the Rodriguez fire tank with as much water as they can carry and/or a backup plan, because the next certain water source lies at Barrel Springs, nearly 33 hot hot hot miles away, over the floor of the Anza-Borrego desert and the steep, extremely exposed terrain of the San Felipe Hills. And did I mention the part about the heat? It's hot out there. Two trail-angel maintained water caches stand amid this gauntlet, at miles 77 (Scissors Crossing) and 91 (Third Gate). Caches (here and everywhere) are an absolute boon--the number of successful thru-hikes has increased greatly since they appeared--but one must remember that they might be empty, or the trail angels might have something better to do with their time on a particular week. The caches make our lives safer and happier, but they cannot be relied upon. So we try to plan carefully.
The morning of day 5, nearly everyone in camp rolled out as quick as they could, hoping to cover the 9 miles of desert between the fire tank and Scissors Crossing (the highway sheltering the first cache) early. Most had decided either to hitch back to the Kick-Off at Lake Morena or to detour to Julian, a 12 mile ride from the crossing. I was one of the latter--no sense hiking through the worst heat of the day, and we'd all heard the rumor of a free slice of pie for hikers at Mom's Pies.
The goddam desert was already cooking (at least to my poor polar blood) by ten o'clock, when I arrived at Scissors Crossing. A group of us amassed at the monument there; seems that the locals know enough about us that a scruffy-looking bunch of vagrants can get a hitch pretty easily. This was my first time hitchhiking (lots of firsts these days). Before long Paul, Grady, and I rode to town in the straw-strewn back of a pickup truck driven by a woman named Patricia. Grady's a canny hitchhiker, so I took notes and hopefully retained the lesson. Arriving in a human settlement after five days on the trail made everything from soap to chairs feel like a minor miracle. I enjoyed my apple-cherry pie with cinnamon ice cream immensely--not just because it was excellent pie, though it was, and free!--but the ice cream was COLD, and the iced coffee was COLD, and the sandwich had cheese and lettuce and tomatoes and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Diesel-grade trail food I'd been eating all week. It was like a pat on the head, a sticker for good work.
Hikers kept arriving, and we loitered at Mom's Pies for rather longer than good manners might dictate. Feeling that we probably ought to move along, since we'd been among the first to arrive, Paul and I tanked up our water vessels, left the cafe to the lunch crowd, and found a shady piece of grass to sit in. By three we got antsy and found a ride back to the crossing with a very sweet, God-loving young woman whose gas gauge cheerfully read: 0 miles to empty. For the entire twelve miles of the ride. (Good thing it was nearly all downhill.) Walking the half mile from the crossing to the cache under the bridge, Paul and I were struck by the fact that it was still very, very hot. Unhealthily hot. Paul is maddeningly blase about some hardships, but no way was I going to try a climb with eight pounds of water in that heat--I'd pass out. We hunkered in the shade of the bridge and waited. Paul charged his phone and talked maps with a beer-bellied hiker named Jim. I made a start on the Miss Marple mystery I'd found at the Mt Laguna store. This isn't idleness, it's strategy.
By five-thirty the air had cooled marginally, and we decided to make a start. The San Felipes are all I imagine in a desert: hot, barren, covered in sharp points. The cacti were pretty spectacular, It's true--nearly all of them are bloming right now--some of the little round barrel cacti looked like they ought to glow in the dark, or dance under the full moon. My favorite were the ocotillo--so beautiful and WEIRD. But the landscape as a whole just looked--and felt--scorched. Here there be dragons. Wildfires had left their marks, and the relentless sun had cooked every hint of green to a brown husk. The trail tread was full of small stones, and seemed to wind around and around interminably, making no noticeable headway. It's not one of those pieces of trail that you look back on with fondness; just one that you pass through to get to other things. Paul and I hiked into the dark, by headlamp, trying to put in a few more miles while the air was cool, so saving ourselves the effort the next day. Eventually we paused in the narrow, flat gully between two hills, and--feeling acutely that I'd been awake since five--I said I was done.
Dry camps are a drag in the desert, I discovered that night. No cooking. No rinsing of socks. You eat whatever of your food looks least loathsome-- peanut butter with fig newtons, anyone?--resign yourself to discomfort, and wait for morning. The campsite wasn't big enough for our tarp tents--if I have a complaint about my delightfully commodious tent, it's the correlatingly large footprint--so we rolled them flat as groundsheets, unpacked sleeping bags on top, and "cowboy camped." Maybe under different circumstances this would have been a fun, but this time it was a disaster--little hopping beetles crawled all over and kept waking me up. I kept hearing chewing noises--probably rabbits--and imagining snakes and spiders. It was much too hot in my 20-degree sleeping bag, but I couldn't bring myself to lay on top of it because of the beetles. I stayed put and sweltered. And listened to the desert. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well.
We started moving again at first light. Paul and I don't really hike together--he hikes either right at my heels or half a mile in front, and we see each other at overlapping sock-change and snack breaks. That day I was dragging behind even more than usual. The heat grew oppressive before the sun was halfway into the sky--looking into the valley, I could see rippling heat waves. At one point we paused in the shrinking shadow of boulder, and Paul examined his watch with a laugh--ninety-three degrees at ten-thirty. In the shade. Thank god for the wind, or I might have melted altogether. The entire day passed in a haze of heat and tiredness, a kind of trial by fire. There was no need to hurry--nor shade anywhere, nor place to stop. I had plenty of water, all the time in the world, and a guarantee of good water and shade at Barrel Spring. I just had to get there. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. That's life on the PCT, I'm learning. I suppose there was always going to be a day--or days--when I would have to inure myself to the heat. I'm sure there will be many other tough marches.
We made it to Barrel Spring, of course; I've never been so happy to see a slimy green horse trough full of tadpoles and good cold WATER. Just as I stumbled into the blessed shelter of those oak trees a trail angel called Alphabet Soup delivered several cases of PBR and soda to the trough, so all the parches souls present scored a drink of some sort. Even more exciting: oranges! A bag of oranges hung over a fence post, real oranges with leaves still attaches that had clearly come from somebody's orchard. After a rest and a refill, Paul would have been ready to put in a few more miles, but for my part I rinsed the salt from as many of my clothes as I could and called it a day.
Day seven dawned, and after ten hours of sleep and a celebratory cup of instant coffee--a hiker box find--I felt like a million bucks again. Holy shit, guys, I hiked ONE HUNDRED MILES! A very short hike over low, dry cow pasture--compared to the previous day's death march, this felt like a morning jaunt through the park--took us to Warner Springs. On the way we passed (and climbed) the iconic Eagle Rock, which felt celebratory indeed.
Warner Springs doesn't have a grocery store (or much of anything, really, now that the hot spring resort is closed), so we and nearly every other hiker in striking distance took a "nearo" that day, idling away the afternoon, waiting for the post office to open the following morning and distribute our resupply packages. It made a welcome reprieve. To top it off, the community center in town was offering showers (!) with soap (!) to hikers, plus a variety of other useful services. We scrubbed off the sweat and grime, washed clothes, charged phones, rummaged through the hiker boxes, and sat under trees doing Absolutely Nothing.
Day 6: San Felipe Hills to Barrel Spring, 16.6 miles
Day 7: Barrel Spring to Warner Springs, 8 miles
Hikers are warned to leave the Rodriguez fire tank with as much water as they can carry and/or a backup plan, because the next certain water source lies at Barrel Springs, nearly 33 hot hot hot miles away, over the floor of the Anza-Borrego desert and the steep, extremely exposed terrain of the San Felipe Hills. And did I mention the part about the heat? It's hot out there. Two trail-angel maintained water caches stand amid this gauntlet, at miles 77 (Scissors Crossing) and 91 (Third Gate). Caches (here and everywhere) are an absolute boon--the number of successful thru-hikes has increased greatly since they appeared--but one must remember that they might be empty, or the trail angels might have something better to do with their time on a particular week. The caches make our lives safer and happier, but they cannot be relied upon. So we try to plan carefully.
The morning of day 5, nearly everyone in camp rolled out as quick as they could, hoping to cover the 9 miles of desert between the fire tank and Scissors Crossing (the highway sheltering the first cache) early. Most had decided either to hitch back to the Kick-Off at Lake Morena or to detour to Julian, a 12 mile ride from the crossing. I was one of the latter--no sense hiking through the worst heat of the day, and we'd all heard the rumor of a free slice of pie for hikers at Mom's Pies.
The goddam desert was already cooking (at least to my poor polar blood) by ten o'clock, when I arrived at Scissors Crossing. A group of us amassed at the monument there; seems that the locals know enough about us that a scruffy-looking bunch of vagrants can get a hitch pretty easily. This was my first time hitchhiking (lots of firsts these days). Before long Paul, Grady, and I rode to town in the straw-strewn back of a pickup truck driven by a woman named Patricia. Grady's a canny hitchhiker, so I took notes and hopefully retained the lesson. Arriving in a human settlement after five days on the trail made everything from soap to chairs feel like a minor miracle. I enjoyed my apple-cherry pie with cinnamon ice cream immensely--not just because it was excellent pie, though it was, and free!--but the ice cream was COLD, and the iced coffee was COLD, and the sandwich had cheese and lettuce and tomatoes and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Diesel-grade trail food I'd been eating all week. It was like a pat on the head, a sticker for good work.
Hikers kept arriving, and we loitered at Mom's Pies for rather longer than good manners might dictate. Feeling that we probably ought to move along, since we'd been among the first to arrive, Paul and I tanked up our water vessels, left the cafe to the lunch crowd, and found a shady piece of grass to sit in. By three we got antsy and found a ride back to the crossing with a very sweet, God-loving young woman whose gas gauge cheerfully read: 0 miles to empty. For the entire twelve miles of the ride. (Good thing it was nearly all downhill.) Walking the half mile from the crossing to the cache under the bridge, Paul and I were struck by the fact that it was still very, very hot. Unhealthily hot. Paul is maddeningly blase about some hardships, but no way was I going to try a climb with eight pounds of water in that heat--I'd pass out. We hunkered in the shade of the bridge and waited. Paul charged his phone and talked maps with a beer-bellied hiker named Jim. I made a start on the Miss Marple mystery I'd found at the Mt Laguna store. This isn't idleness, it's strategy.
By five-thirty the air had cooled marginally, and we decided to make a start. The San Felipes are all I imagine in a desert: hot, barren, covered in sharp points. The cacti were pretty spectacular, It's true--nearly all of them are bloming right now--some of the little round barrel cacti looked like they ought to glow in the dark, or dance under the full moon. My favorite were the ocotillo--so beautiful and WEIRD. But the landscape as a whole just looked--and felt--scorched. Here there be dragons. Wildfires had left their marks, and the relentless sun had cooked every hint of green to a brown husk. The trail tread was full of small stones, and seemed to wind around and around interminably, making no noticeable headway. It's not one of those pieces of trail that you look back on with fondness; just one that you pass through to get to other things. Paul and I hiked into the dark, by headlamp, trying to put in a few more miles while the air was cool, so saving ourselves the effort the next day. Eventually we paused in the narrow, flat gully between two hills, and--feeling acutely that I'd been awake since five--I said I was done.
Dry camps are a drag in the desert, I discovered that night. No cooking. No rinsing of socks. You eat whatever of your food looks least loathsome-- peanut butter with fig newtons, anyone?--resign yourself to discomfort, and wait for morning. The campsite wasn't big enough for our tarp tents--if I have a complaint about my delightfully commodious tent, it's the correlatingly large footprint--so we rolled them flat as groundsheets, unpacked sleeping bags on top, and "cowboy camped." Maybe under different circumstances this would have been a fun, but this time it was a disaster--little hopping beetles crawled all over and kept waking me up. I kept hearing chewing noises--probably rabbits--and imagining snakes and spiders. It was much too hot in my 20-degree sleeping bag, but I couldn't bring myself to lay on top of it because of the beetles. I stayed put and sweltered. And listened to the desert. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well.
We started moving again at first light. Paul and I don't really hike together--he hikes either right at my heels or half a mile in front, and we see each other at overlapping sock-change and snack breaks. That day I was dragging behind even more than usual. The heat grew oppressive before the sun was halfway into the sky--looking into the valley, I could see rippling heat waves. At one point we paused in the shrinking shadow of boulder, and Paul examined his watch with a laugh--ninety-three degrees at ten-thirty. In the shade. Thank god for the wind, or I might have melted altogether. The entire day passed in a haze of heat and tiredness, a kind of trial by fire. There was no need to hurry--nor shade anywhere, nor place to stop. I had plenty of water, all the time in the world, and a guarantee of good water and shade at Barrel Spring. I just had to get there. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. That's life on the PCT, I'm learning. I suppose there was always going to be a day--or days--when I would have to inure myself to the heat. I'm sure there will be many other tough marches.
We made it to Barrel Spring, of course; I've never been so happy to see a slimy green horse trough full of tadpoles and good cold WATER. Just as I stumbled into the blessed shelter of those oak trees a trail angel called Alphabet Soup delivered several cases of PBR and soda to the trough, so all the parches souls present scored a drink of some sort. Even more exciting: oranges! A bag of oranges hung over a fence post, real oranges with leaves still attaches that had clearly come from somebody's orchard. After a rest and a refill, Paul would have been ready to put in a few more miles, but for my part I rinsed the salt from as many of my clothes as I could and called it a day.
Day seven dawned, and after ten hours of sleep and a celebratory cup of instant coffee--a hiker box find--I felt like a million bucks again. Holy shit, guys, I hiked ONE HUNDRED MILES! A very short hike over low, dry cow pasture--compared to the previous day's death march, this felt like a morning jaunt through the park--took us to Warner Springs. On the way we passed (and climbed) the iconic Eagle Rock, which felt celebratory indeed.
April 25, 2013
Easing In
Day 2: Lake Morena Campground to Cibbetts Flat Campground, 12.6 miles
Day 3: Cibbetts Flat Campground to Al Bahr Shrine Camp, 15 miles
Day 4: Al Bahr Shrine Camp to Rodriguez Spur, 21 miles
I can see that I'm unlikely to fulfill my lofty goal of posting an entry to match each day.
We're wending our way north by traveling from one spigot to the next. All of our activities are determined by the water sources. Well, that and the heat.
Day 2 dawned relatively cold, thanks to the proximity of the lake, to the melodious call of a couple of idiot turkeys that nobody ever saw. Paul and I broke camp pretty quickly, having already cottoned to the fact that the best hiking happens early in the morning, before the sun gets too high. By noon of that day I was already pretty well spent. Still cheerful, but definitely tired. Even with shade breaks and plenty of water, I couldn't seem to muster a pace speedier than Dead Mosey. We took the 0.8 mile side trail to Cibbetts Flat to get water, and when I set eyes on the shady picnic tables, running creek, and hot, uphill climb to get back to the trail, I decided to call it a day. The End! Paul was clearly fit for another march, but elected to stay also, either from a grudgin acknowledgement that one ought to start a thru-hike gently, or from some notion that he's looking after me this first week, I can't say. I stretched out on a picnic table and alternately snacked and dozed for most of the afternoon. It was really... nice. Like being on vacation. It occurred to me belatedly that it had been my first Day With No Coffee, which might have contributed to the somnambulism...but how many people fantasize about spending a beautiful sunny day exactly in that fashion, napping by a stream and defending your granola bars from guerilla squirrels?
The next day was full of firsts. First resupply stop (in Mount Laguna), first rattlesnake encounter (nobody was harmed), first mac & cheese dinner (of hundreds, probably), and first storm (nobody was harmed). After an energetic morning hike, and spending a couple of hours in the shade of the Laguna General Store, I proceeded (again at a Dead Mosey) towards the Al Bahr Shriner's Lodge, where (according to Stonedancer, whom I'd encountered the day before) hikers could get a shower and camp on the lawn for free. Thank you, Shriners! I feel a little spoiled, two full rinse-offs in the first week, but when my stomach announced it's displeasure with three days of Diesel-Grade Trail Food, I was kind of happy to have the luxury of a bathroom. I don't care if that makes me a weenie.
The wind came howling through the hills that night, and I'm proud to say that my tarptent did not crumple on my sleeping head, though it certainly raised a tremendous flapping racket. (I now know to tighten the guylines about an hour after setup. We're slowly learning one another's ways, the tent and I.) Starting the fourth day a bit damp was completely worth the cooler temperature in the morning. Even Paul has gravely allowed that I "do alright" setting the pace on a cool morning. Fog shrouded the surrounding hills well past the hour that we expected it to burn off, recollecting Scotland (sort of), and the wind kept the heat at bay even into midafternoon. Heh. It feels strange and senior-citizenly to be talking always of the weather, but out here its kind of a big deal, since it directly impacts how fast and how far I can hike. When the mercury tops some particular threshold, it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. That's the time to scout out a little shade, put up my feet, and wait for evening.
Fortunately, that cool morning gave me a solid start, since it was a pretty long haul to the next water source. A pretty big gaggle of hikers collected at the fire tank by Rodriguez spur, some with Names, others still traveling under our civilian handles--Cuddles, Grady, Ashley, Mark, Scat-Tracker, Unicroc, Rachel, Robin, Dave, Matt, Paul...and me. Thus amassed at a watering hole we eye one anothers' gear, rinse socks, pass the duct tape, mess with stoves and curse at varying volumes, talk about campsites and the plan for the next day, refine our Hiker Hobble--and then we're all in bed by eight-thirty. Ha ha ha.
The desert has something of Antarctica's immutability to it--a climate and landscape so harsh you might want to call it hostile, except Antarctica defies even the microbes, and here the wildflowers and lizards bear staunch testament to the fact that the desert CAN support life--just not mine, really. I and all the rest of the hikers walk carefully, tracing a tenuous line of resources that enables us to defy our individual human limitations. You'd think that sixty-eight miles and four days' stink would start to bring the message home, but I still can't quite believe I'm here, doing this half-cracked thing, walking across the desert and trusting that the twelve-inch span of dirt in front of my feet will eventually lead me north.
Day 3: Cibbetts Flat Campground to Al Bahr Shrine Camp, 15 miles
Day 4: Al Bahr Shrine Camp to Rodriguez Spur, 21 miles
I can see that I'm unlikely to fulfill my lofty goal of posting an entry to match each day.
We're wending our way north by traveling from one spigot to the next. All of our activities are determined by the water sources. Well, that and the heat.
Day 2 dawned relatively cold, thanks to the proximity of the lake, to the melodious call of a couple of idiot turkeys that nobody ever saw. Paul and I broke camp pretty quickly, having already cottoned to the fact that the best hiking happens early in the morning, before the sun gets too high. By noon of that day I was already pretty well spent. Still cheerful, but definitely tired. Even with shade breaks and plenty of water, I couldn't seem to muster a pace speedier than Dead Mosey. We took the 0.8 mile side trail to Cibbetts Flat to get water, and when I set eyes on the shady picnic tables, running creek, and hot, uphill climb to get back to the trail, I decided to call it a day. The End! Paul was clearly fit for another march, but elected to stay also, either from a grudgin acknowledgement that one ought to start a thru-hike gently, or from some notion that he's looking after me this first week, I can't say. I stretched out on a picnic table and alternately snacked and dozed for most of the afternoon. It was really... nice. Like being on vacation. It occurred to me belatedly that it had been my first Day With No Coffee, which might have contributed to the somnambulism...but how many people fantasize about spending a beautiful sunny day exactly in that fashion, napping by a stream and defending your granola bars from guerilla squirrels?
The next day was full of firsts. First resupply stop (in Mount Laguna), first rattlesnake encounter (nobody was harmed), first mac & cheese dinner (of hundreds, probably), and first storm (nobody was harmed). After an energetic morning hike, and spending a couple of hours in the shade of the Laguna General Store, I proceeded (again at a Dead Mosey) towards the Al Bahr Shriner's Lodge, where (according to Stonedancer, whom I'd encountered the day before) hikers could get a shower and camp on the lawn for free. Thank you, Shriners! I feel a little spoiled, two full rinse-offs in the first week, but when my stomach announced it's displeasure with three days of Diesel-Grade Trail Food, I was kind of happy to have the luxury of a bathroom. I don't care if that makes me a weenie.
The wind came howling through the hills that night, and I'm proud to say that my tarptent did not crumple on my sleeping head, though it certainly raised a tremendous flapping racket. (I now know to tighten the guylines about an hour after setup. We're slowly learning one another's ways, the tent and I.) Starting the fourth day a bit damp was completely worth the cooler temperature in the morning. Even Paul has gravely allowed that I "do alright" setting the pace on a cool morning. Fog shrouded the surrounding hills well past the hour that we expected it to burn off, recollecting Scotland (sort of), and the wind kept the heat at bay even into midafternoon. Heh. It feels strange and senior-citizenly to be talking always of the weather, but out here its kind of a big deal, since it directly impacts how fast and how far I can hike. When the mercury tops some particular threshold, it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. That's the time to scout out a little shade, put up my feet, and wait for evening.
Fortunately, that cool morning gave me a solid start, since it was a pretty long haul to the next water source. A pretty big gaggle of hikers collected at the fire tank by Rodriguez spur, some with Names, others still traveling under our civilian handles--Cuddles, Grady, Ashley, Mark, Scat-Tracker, Unicroc, Rachel, Robin, Dave, Matt, Paul...and me. Thus amassed at a watering hole we eye one anothers' gear, rinse socks, pass the duct tape, mess with stoves and curse at varying volumes, talk about campsites and the plan for the next day, refine our Hiker Hobble--and then we're all in bed by eight-thirty. Ha ha ha.
The desert has something of Antarctica's immutability to it--a climate and landscape so harsh you might want to call it hostile, except Antarctica defies even the microbes, and here the wildflowers and lizards bear staunch testament to the fact that the desert CAN support life--just not mine, really. I and all the rest of the hikers walk carefully, tracing a tenuous line of resources that enables us to defy our individual human limitations. You'd think that sixty-eight miles and four days' stink would start to bring the message home, but I still can't quite believe I'm here, doing this half-cracked thing, walking across the desert and trusting that the twelve-inch span of dirt in front of my feet will eventually lead me north.
April 22, 2013
A Long Beginning
Day 1: Southern Terminus to Lake Morena Campground, 20 miles
What do you call a twenty- mile trek across the desert?
A good start.
Earth Day! We left Scout and Frodo's house at six on the dot in a caravan of two vans and a pickup, all loaded to the gills with excited hikers. An hour's drive brought us to Campo, the air still cool and fresh. Cuddles, a repeat offender from 2008, treated us to a cello serenade at the monument. Supposedly he plans to bounce the instrument to various points up the trail; he hikes a good bit more confidently (faster) than soft newbies like me, so I might not hear him play again, but on the first day, particularly, live music felt special and lucky. We all shuffled around for a few minutes, signing the register and taking photos, before sidling between the orange cones to touch the Mexican border wall, setting trekking poles to stun, and marching hopefully northward.
The desert here is remarkably lush with green shrubby plants and wildlife--not at all the barren wasteland you might imagine. One of the omnipresent birds, a pretty black and orange thing, sang such a lovely, intricate, articulate story that I had to stop and listen. I'll take a good omen wherever I can. The rolling terrain opened out regularly to reveal the landscape ahead and behind, veiled in haze according to the distance, and the trail tread we hiked was relatively gentle, leading over and around granite boulder-strewn hills. The rocks reminded me of tors, if less imposing thanks to the crowding vegetation. Pretty sweet way to start.
But a desert is designated a desert by the absence of rainfall; no matter how pretty, the first twenty miles of the PCT (except for a creek around mile 4) are dry this year. Meaning, we needed to make it to Lake Morena on that first day. Paul and I left Campo with a generous allotment of water, and I knew excitement and first- day freshness would help, but as the sun rose and the temperature climbed with it, damn if that twenty miles didn't turn into a very long hike. It was hot. The hills, however pleasing to the eye, foster mostly short bushes, which don't offer a lot of shade. Thank god for long sleeves, trousers, and wide-brimmed hats. And desert wind. There were some nice points. We met a few other hikers--even two donkeys!--leapfrogging each others' shade breaks. It was still hot. By four o'clock I felt DONE. Even Paul, who moseyed patiently in my wake, admitted to feeling pretty footsore by mile eighteen. We plugged along wearily--because that's how it goes when you MUST reach the next water source--and stumbled into Morena campground a little after six, I think.
A few hikers were already there--some who'd started just before us, others who had hiked in the day previously and decided to take a zero to recover (not a bad idea). Paul and I rewarded our toils with a trip to the shower block, where I washed off the most grime that I have ever accumulated and discovered a weird rash on the backs of my calves. I don't think it can be poison oak, since it's neither blistered nor itchy, and coincided interestingly with the dirt, but it's angry-looking enough that I treated it with sympathy and rinsed out all my socks and trousers. Paul cooked his meal and ambled off to another campsite to be sociable, but I wasn't feeling it. Without further ado, I pitched my tent, stirred up one of my no-cook bean "salads," brushed my teeth, and went to bed. I think it was eight-thirty.
At one in the morning I woke with an intolerable headache, raging thirst, and throbbing feet. Rummaging for my little Rosie-the-Riveter tin of ibuprofen, I honestly had to laugh at myself. What a lark I signed myself up for! DAY ONE.
What do you call a twenty- mile trek across the desert?
A good start.
Earth Day! We left Scout and Frodo's house at six on the dot in a caravan of two vans and a pickup, all loaded to the gills with excited hikers. An hour's drive brought us to Campo, the air still cool and fresh. Cuddles, a repeat offender from 2008, treated us to a cello serenade at the monument. Supposedly he plans to bounce the instrument to various points up the trail; he hikes a good bit more confidently (faster) than soft newbies like me, so I might not hear him play again, but on the first day, particularly, live music felt special and lucky. We all shuffled around for a few minutes, signing the register and taking photos, before sidling between the orange cones to touch the Mexican border wall, setting trekking poles to stun, and marching hopefully northward.
The desert here is remarkably lush with green shrubby plants and wildlife--not at all the barren wasteland you might imagine. One of the omnipresent birds, a pretty black and orange thing, sang such a lovely, intricate, articulate story that I had to stop and listen. I'll take a good omen wherever I can. The rolling terrain opened out regularly to reveal the landscape ahead and behind, veiled in haze according to the distance, and the trail tread we hiked was relatively gentle, leading over and around granite boulder-strewn hills. The rocks reminded me of tors, if less imposing thanks to the crowding vegetation. Pretty sweet way to start.
A few hikers were already there--some who'd started just before us, others who had hiked in the day previously and decided to take a zero to recover (not a bad idea). Paul and I rewarded our toils with a trip to the shower block, where I washed off the most grime that I have ever accumulated and discovered a weird rash on the backs of my calves. I don't think it can be poison oak, since it's neither blistered nor itchy, and coincided interestingly with the dirt, but it's angry-looking enough that I treated it with sympathy and rinsed out all my socks and trousers. Paul cooked his meal and ambled off to another campsite to be sociable, but I wasn't feeling it. Without further ado, I pitched my tent, stirred up one of my no-cook bean "salads," brushed my teeth, and went to bed. I think it was eight-thirty.
At one in the morning I woke with an intolerable headache, raging thirst, and throbbing feet. Rummaging for my little Rosie-the-Riveter tin of ibuprofen, I honestly had to laugh at myself. What a lark I signed myself up for! DAY ONE.
April 17, 2013
Cropped
I got my hair cut.
It was a lot of hair. Until yesterday morning, it fell to my elbows. The plaits that the hairdresser cut off weighed nearly six ounces--and she went on trimming the hair still attached to my head.
I'd put so much work into it--both the color and the length. Over the last five years that mane had insidiously segued from my most noticeable physical feature into a piece of my identity: I was The Girl with the Long Red Hair. I feel kind of...plain...all of a sudden. Both more like myself and less so. Even the color seems a little quieter, pared down this way, and it'll go on bleaching over the summer. Recognizing my cropped reflection blends relief and bitterness in strange ways. Aha. There I am.
Aesthetics will shortly become immaterial: it had to go. I won't have the time, energy, or resources to wash, dry, comb, braid, and tint an elbow-length mess of increasingly matted hiker-hair. After a while--probably not long--I won't care. Nobody else will care, either. Better to have it shorn neatly, now, than to lose my temper on a blistering 100-degree day and hack it to pieces with my pocketknife. I can't have my hair catching under pack straps, whipping into my eyes, twining around my neck in my sleep. Like so many things, there'll be no place for it on the trail.
Whew.
April 15, 2013
That Will to Divest
Action creates
a tastefor itself.Meaning: onceyou've sweptthe shelvesof spoonsand platesyou keptfor guestsit gets hardernot to alsosimplify the larder,not to dismissrooms, not to divest yourselfof all the chairsbut one, notto test whatsingleness can bearonce you've begun.--Kay Ryan
April 13, 2013
The Gear List
Gear is a loaded word these days. Hikers invoke Gear like ordinary mortals once referred to God--with reverence, and resentment, and maybe a little fear. They stage heated debates, divide into sects, publish pamphlets, raise temples, and make staggering monetary offerings in the name of this impassive divinity. Every thru-hike is another fervid exegesis of Gear.
I feel like a fraud, putting up a gear list before I've actually started hiking, but it's customary to set a baseline--something to laugh at later. I tried to choose my gear with the same philosophy that I use to outfit my kitchen. A well-seasoned cast iron skillet, some sharp knives, an array of bowls and spatulas--these are good tools. Good tools are worth good money. I'll even acknowledge the usefulness of a few single-use gadgets, like citrus zesters, and candy thermometers. But I don't like a lot of clutter. Ultimately a baker is her own greatest asset, and experience is the best teacher. My five senses, two hands, and brain serve me better than all the pretty, expensive toys in the world. Sometimes I surprise myself with the things I'm able to pull off with "substandard" or "nontraditional" or, ahem, "broken" equipment and a little ingenuity. I imagine that this will be true in the hiking world, too. I can't wait to see what I'm obliged to invent with rocks and shoelaces.
There are two weight columns because ounces are traditional and grams are my preferred [baking] unit of measurement. The manufacturer's specs were consistently a little optimistic. I used the kitchen scale to weigh everything but the pack, which wouldn't fit.
For those who haven't already seen through the ruse, base weight is bull-malarkey. My pack will not ever weigh eleven and a half pounds. Food and water, at some points, may add ten pounds each. But because food and water fluctuate so greatly from day to day, and because consumption varies from person to person (Paul will have to pack at least 30% more food than me), base weight is considered the best working index of pack weight. Eleven and a half pounds isn't bad for a rookie.
I've included the "source" column because a lot of gear lists I read back in January gave me to believe that the author bought everything brand new, and bought it for himself. This can't possibly be the case. If it is, everyone is spending waaay too much money. GearTrade is a magnificent resource, like Goodwill for hikers. Plus, I got a lot of stuff from family trying to help me with this crazy ambitious project, and it seems right to acknowledge that. And don't forget the Hiker Boxes! I'm hoping they help to keep me in books, and who knows what other goodies I might find.
One exciting note: Paul has a Twitter account, and last week he saw an advertisement from the PCTA announcing that KEEN had developed a new line of über-durable socks and sought a dozen aspiring thru-hikers to try them out. He threw our names into the hat, and a few days later, hey presto!, I AM A SOCK TESTER. Gadzooks. I could never have foreseen the day that I would become a sock-tester. Paul has visions of puppet theatre on Mt Whitney. (I almost feel sorry for KEEN.)
Lastly, without question, this list will see many revisions. I might learn to keep myself hydrated without a Camelbak. I might find I need a solar charger, or some low gaiters to keep the debris out of my shoes. I might ditch my underwear and bounce my wool sleeping clothes in the first week. It's part of the journey!
I feel like a fraud, putting up a gear list before I've actually started hiking, but it's customary to set a baseline--something to laugh at later. I tried to choose my gear with the same philosophy that I use to outfit my kitchen. A well-seasoned cast iron skillet, some sharp knives, an array of bowls and spatulas--these are good tools. Good tools are worth good money. I'll even acknowledge the usefulness of a few single-use gadgets, like citrus zesters, and candy thermometers. But I don't like a lot of clutter. Ultimately a baker is her own greatest asset, and experience is the best teacher. My five senses, two hands, and brain serve me better than all the pretty, expensive toys in the world. Sometimes I surprise myself with the things I'm able to pull off with "substandard" or "nontraditional" or, ahem, "broken" equipment and a little ingenuity. I imagine that this will be true in the hiking world, too. I can't wait to see what I'm obliged to invent with rocks and shoelaces.
There are two weight columns because ounces are traditional and grams are my preferred [baking] unit of measurement. The manufacturer's specs were consistently a little optimistic. I used the kitchen scale to weigh everything but the pack, which wouldn't fit.
For those who haven't already seen through the ruse, base weight is bull-malarkey. My pack will not ever weigh eleven and a half pounds. Food and water, at some points, may add ten pounds each. But because food and water fluctuate so greatly from day to day, and because consumption varies from person to person (Paul will have to pack at least 30% more food than me), base weight is considered the best working index of pack weight. Eleven and a half pounds isn't bad for a rookie.
I've included the "source" column because a lot of gear lists I read back in January gave me to believe that the author bought everything brand new, and bought it for himself. This can't possibly be the case. If it is, everyone is spending waaay too much money. GearTrade is a magnificent resource, like Goodwill for hikers. Plus, I got a lot of stuff from family trying to help me with this crazy ambitious project, and it seems right to acknowledge that. And don't forget the Hiker Boxes! I'm hoping they help to keep me in books, and who knows what other goodies I might find.
One exciting note: Paul has a Twitter account, and last week he saw an advertisement from the PCTA announcing that KEEN had developed a new line of über-durable socks and sought a dozen aspiring thru-hikers to try them out. He threw our names into the hat, and a few days later, hey presto!, I AM A SOCK TESTER. Gadzooks. I could never have foreseen the day that I would become a sock-tester. Paul has visions of puppet theatre on Mt Whitney. (I almost feel sorry for KEEN.)Lastly, without question, this list will see many revisions. I might learn to keep myself hydrated without a Camelbak. I might find I need a solar charger, or some low gaiters to keep the debris out of my shoes. I might ditch my underwear and bounce my wool sleeping clothes in the first week. It's part of the journey!
April 7, 2013
Care Packages
Kim and Sarah have both proposed sending me treats on the trail, so this information is for them, and possibly for Postcardmaster Silas.
Do you want to send me something on the trail? Yes! Send me something! The best option is to send it to Mom, since she will be my principal point of contact, armed with the most current information on my whereabouts, a complete list of my intended town stops, addresses, and ETAs.
Mothership Lohrenz
1200 Polnell Shores Drive
Oak Harbor, WA 98277
If you don't want to send it to Mom, at least find out from her where/when to send it, and then give me a heads-up via email or voicemail. It's worth pointing out that my resupply plan doesn't include a lot of maildrops until I reach the northern half of this country, which means that on town days I'll be heading directly for the grocery store, not the post office--I'll need to know in advance if there is a prize waiting for me. It's not even safe to send a "surprise" box to someplace I'm already picking up a maildrop--these areas handle literally hundreds of hiker boxes each season, and if I don't know to ask for it, I probably won't get it. Missing a care package would be sad indeed, so grant me the boon of anticipation. Don't be deterred by all these restrictions, though, because providing I get as far as central/northern California--in July, I imagine--I'm definitely going to be a little wild-eyed and all too happy to feel the love from off-trail.
What to send? My suggestions for thru-hiking treats are nearly the same as the rules for Antarctica: consumables and disposables. Food is best, always. Good food equals a good mood! No Oreos, please. No Pepperidge Farm. No ClifBars. Actually--no bars of any sort. Just like in Antarctica: send the hippie-est, organic-est, weirdest food you can find, stuff I won't be able to get for myself. Send cookies. Send candy. Send cheese-doodles. And chocolate, always chocolate. Don't worry about sending durable comestibles "appropriate for travel," because chances are, if I find something special in my maildrop I will eat it immediately--like a STARFISH.
If you don't fancy sending food, the number one thing to keep in mind is that I will have to carry it, whatever it is, so keep it light. Really light. Paperback books that weigh less than four ounces, for instance. I am not kidding about the weight limit, either--get out the scale before you send a book, don't make me cut it into pieces. Postcards. Stories, poems, letters. Anything to occupy my brain during the long spells when it won't be needed to direct my feet. (There may come a point when Silas finds a brand-new iPod shuffle on his doorstep and if that happens please fill it with "epic baking"-type music and send it on immediately.)
And remember that for the first time in living memory I'll be carrying my phone with me. A smartphone. (!) Most of the time it'll run in airplane mode and on standby to preserve battery life, so it's not like the basic paradigm of my owning a phone will have changed that greatly, but it means I'll have internet access so yes yes yes send email, voicemail, pictures of cats and fancy pastry. Motivation! Let me hear from you! You've all gotten so good at these bare-faced lies--"It's going to be amazing! You'll have the summer of a lifetime!"--that I almost believe you really think that.
Do you want to send me something on the trail? Yes! Send me something! The best option is to send it to Mom, since she will be my principal point of contact, armed with the most current information on my whereabouts, a complete list of my intended town stops, addresses, and ETAs.
Mothership Lohrenz
1200 Polnell Shores Drive
Oak Harbor, WA 98277
If you don't want to send it to Mom, at least find out from her where/when to send it, and then give me a heads-up via email or voicemail. It's worth pointing out that my resupply plan doesn't include a lot of maildrops until I reach the northern half of this country, which means that on town days I'll be heading directly for the grocery store, not the post office--I'll need to know in advance if there is a prize waiting for me. It's not even safe to send a "surprise" box to someplace I'm already picking up a maildrop--these areas handle literally hundreds of hiker boxes each season, and if I don't know to ask for it, I probably won't get it. Missing a care package would be sad indeed, so grant me the boon of anticipation. Don't be deterred by all these restrictions, though, because providing I get as far as central/northern California--in July, I imagine--I'm definitely going to be a little wild-eyed and all too happy to feel the love from off-trail.
What to send? My suggestions for thru-hiking treats are nearly the same as the rules for Antarctica: consumables and disposables. Food is best, always. Good food equals a good mood! No Oreos, please. No Pepperidge Farm. No ClifBars. Actually--no bars of any sort. Just like in Antarctica: send the hippie-est, organic-est, weirdest food you can find, stuff I won't be able to get for myself. Send cookies. Send candy. Send cheese-doodles. And chocolate, always chocolate. Don't worry about sending durable comestibles "appropriate for travel," because chances are, if I find something special in my maildrop I will eat it immediately--like a STARFISH.
If you don't fancy sending food, the number one thing to keep in mind is that I will have to carry it, whatever it is, so keep it light. Really light. Paperback books that weigh less than four ounces, for instance. I am not kidding about the weight limit, either--get out the scale before you send a book, don't make me cut it into pieces. Postcards. Stories, poems, letters. Anything to occupy my brain during the long spells when it won't be needed to direct my feet. (There may come a point when Silas finds a brand-new iPod shuffle on his doorstep and if that happens please fill it with "epic baking"-type music and send it on immediately.)
And remember that for the first time in living memory I'll be carrying my phone with me. A smartphone. (!) Most of the time it'll run in airplane mode and on standby to preserve battery life, so it's not like the basic paradigm of my owning a phone will have changed that greatly, but it means I'll have internet access so yes yes yes send email, voicemail, pictures of cats and fancy pastry. Motivation! Let me hear from you! You've all gotten so good at these bare-faced lies--"It's going to be amazing! You'll have the summer of a lifetime!"--that I almost believe you really think that.
April 4, 2013
Making a Maildrop
Have I mentioned lately that I have no idea what I'm doing? I feel like I don't say it often enough. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING.
It sounds like such a simple assignment: go to the store and buy a big basketful of high-calorie snack food, then divvy it into five parcels. But it's taken me six trips to two different stores to fill THE FIRST BOX. This is the maildrop for Warner Springs, the box that ought to report to the post office sometime in the next week. It should be easy. I'm not trying to eke a resupply out of a tiny backcountry corner market; I've got a full-service northwestern hippie town with three large grocery stores in walking distance. Nevertheless, I'm struggling. I go to Safeway and stand staring at the endless shelves of brightly-labeled, sleekly-packaged food and all I can think is I don't want to eat any of this. What is this stuff anyway? People dart around me with their wheeled carts, snatching items that they recognize instantly and have no need to examine, while I drift through the aisles like a visitor from another country, or an escapee from the mental ward, reading descriptions and ingredient lists with a mixture of horror and hilarity.
During each visit I cull another few items from the mystifying array, then bring them home, toss them into the orderly lineup of clearly-labeled large flat-rate boxes on my living room floor---and see that it is not enough. Not by a long shot. Or is it? How much will I eat over the course of five days? More to the point, how much of this will I eat over five days? How many of these bars, how many of these cookies---which are nothing like the cookies I would make for myself to eat---how much of this does it take to fuel my body for twenty miles a day? Will I want two candy bars a day, or eight? Will I want a hot breakfast, or something to eat in motion? What does "lunch" mean when you snack all day? Am I even going to care about cooking a meal when it's a hundred degrees out? How long before I'm utterly sick of everything with almonds in it? Will I get tired of chocolate?
I didn't think it would be this hard. I thought I would start by allotting one cooked meal for each day--that's where the Outdoor Herbivore stuff came in--and work backwards. But I'm stuck. I am PERFECTLY AWARE that it's all in my head. With an adventure of this magnitude drawing steadily closer, SOMETHING was bound to wind up channelling all of my cumulative anxiety, so guess what.
"Paul, d'you think this is enough?"
"How many days is it for?"
"Four and a half."
"Well how many calories is it?"
"What?"
"Just add up how many calories it is, that should tell you."
"...are you serious? I'm not going to sit here and tot up the nutritional information on every goddam Luna bar."
"Ohhh, I see, so you're stressing, but you're not willing to do the work, is that it?"
"No, that bloody isn't it! The calorie count??? I want to know if this is enough FOOD, and you're asking me about the calorie count? We aren't even having the same CONVERSATION!"
"Then just stick with the two pounds a day rule!"
"Aauuugh, that doesn't help! I don't know what I'm doing! Never mind the fucking weight, I don't know if I'm going to want to eat any of this shit! I get a handful of Odwalla bars and think, 'Hrm, better not put two of those in the same box in case they're horrible.'"
"You're just too picky! I don't care, you understand? It's just food! I'll eat anything that's put in front of me."
"This is why we aren't hiking together! We are on TWO DIFFERENT TRIPS! Same destination! TWO DIFFERENT TRIPS."
I'm trying to think of a way to explain this mental roadblock. It's like...a completely unfamiliar unit of measurement. The thermometer has degrees Fahrenheit on one side and degrees Celsius on the other--and the experiment is written in Joules. They're related, okay, but they're NOT THE SAME. I need a conversion table, something to translate. There's a particular leap from figuring meals in loaves of bread and dozens of eggs and bundles of kale, to figuring meals in breakfast bars and cheese crackers, and I don't have enough experience with the latter to be able to do the conversion in my head. I have no tangible sense of this food, what it means to my stomach, to my body. And it's really REALLY hard to go the store and buy things that I would never buy under any other circumstances. I don't want to buy any fucking Pepperidge Farm cookies because I don't want to eat any fucking Pepperidge Farm cookies. Ever! I hate Pepperidge Farm cookies! But this is the sort of thing I'm going to have to eat if I'm trying to resupply out of a small store! Pepperidge Farm, hell--what about Oreos? What if I have to eat Oreos? I'm unquestionably going to have to eat Oreos--or starve. DEAR GOD I'M GOING TO STARVE.
No, I'm not going to starve. I'm coping with the Irrational Food Freak-Out in a predictable, time-honored pattern.
1) Overcompensate. For the Warner Springs maildrop, I decided---screw it. Just fill the box. Let it be too much. FILL THE BOX.
2) Stall. For Kennedy Meadows, 700 miles later, I will pack the box; pack it the way this family have been packing suitcases for the last twenty years. PACKED. Shake it. Stand on it. Keep adding things until, no matter how hard you kick that box, nothing budges. I have time to keep shopping. Trader Joe's will help. One flat-rate box might not be enough food, at that point, but there'll be a general store to supplant any glaring omissions. I'll know more by then, right? A lot more.
3) Dodge. The rest of the maildrops--the other three--the ones I won't need until July--I HEREBY ENTRUST TO MY MOTHER!
HA HA HA HA HA!
It sounds like such a simple assignment: go to the store and buy a big basketful of high-calorie snack food, then divvy it into five parcels. But it's taken me six trips to two different stores to fill THE FIRST BOX. This is the maildrop for Warner Springs, the box that ought to report to the post office sometime in the next week. It should be easy. I'm not trying to eke a resupply out of a tiny backcountry corner market; I've got a full-service northwestern hippie town with three large grocery stores in walking distance. Nevertheless, I'm struggling. I go to Safeway and stand staring at the endless shelves of brightly-labeled, sleekly-packaged food and all I can think is I don't want to eat any of this. What is this stuff anyway? People dart around me with their wheeled carts, snatching items that they recognize instantly and have no need to examine, while I drift through the aisles like a visitor from another country, or an escapee from the mental ward, reading descriptions and ingredient lists with a mixture of horror and hilarity.
During each visit I cull another few items from the mystifying array, then bring them home, toss them into the orderly lineup of clearly-labeled large flat-rate boxes on my living room floor---and see that it is not enough. Not by a long shot. Or is it? How much will I eat over the course of five days? More to the point, how much of this will I eat over five days? How many of these bars, how many of these cookies---which are nothing like the cookies I would make for myself to eat---how much of this does it take to fuel my body for twenty miles a day? Will I want two candy bars a day, or eight? Will I want a hot breakfast, or something to eat in motion? What does "lunch" mean when you snack all day? Am I even going to care about cooking a meal when it's a hundred degrees out? How long before I'm utterly sick of everything with almonds in it? Will I get tired of chocolate?
I didn't think it would be this hard. I thought I would start by allotting one cooked meal for each day--that's where the Outdoor Herbivore stuff came in--and work backwards. But I'm stuck. I am PERFECTLY AWARE that it's all in my head. With an adventure of this magnitude drawing steadily closer, SOMETHING was bound to wind up channelling all of my cumulative anxiety, so guess what.
"Paul, d'you think this is enough?"
"How many days is it for?"
"Four and a half."
"Well how many calories is it?"
"What?"
"Just add up how many calories it is, that should tell you."
"...are you serious? I'm not going to sit here and tot up the nutritional information on every goddam Luna bar."
"Ohhh, I see, so you're stressing, but you're not willing to do the work, is that it?"
"No, that bloody isn't it! The calorie count??? I want to know if this is enough FOOD, and you're asking me about the calorie count? We aren't even having the same CONVERSATION!"
"Then just stick with the two pounds a day rule!"
"Aauuugh, that doesn't help! I don't know what I'm doing! Never mind the fucking weight, I don't know if I'm going to want to eat any of this shit! I get a handful of Odwalla bars and think, 'Hrm, better not put two of those in the same box in case they're horrible.'"
"You're just too picky! I don't care, you understand? It's just food! I'll eat anything that's put in front of me."
"This is why we aren't hiking together! We are on TWO DIFFERENT TRIPS! Same destination! TWO DIFFERENT TRIPS."
I'm trying to think of a way to explain this mental roadblock. It's like...a completely unfamiliar unit of measurement. The thermometer has degrees Fahrenheit on one side and degrees Celsius on the other--and the experiment is written in Joules. They're related, okay, but they're NOT THE SAME. I need a conversion table, something to translate. There's a particular leap from figuring meals in loaves of bread and dozens of eggs and bundles of kale, to figuring meals in breakfast bars and cheese crackers, and I don't have enough experience with the latter to be able to do the conversion in my head. I have no tangible sense of this food, what it means to my stomach, to my body. And it's really REALLY hard to go the store and buy things that I would never buy under any other circumstances. I don't want to buy any fucking Pepperidge Farm cookies because I don't want to eat any fucking Pepperidge Farm cookies. Ever! I hate Pepperidge Farm cookies! But this is the sort of thing I'm going to have to eat if I'm trying to resupply out of a small store! Pepperidge Farm, hell--what about Oreos? What if I have to eat Oreos? I'm unquestionably going to have to eat Oreos--or starve. DEAR GOD I'M GOING TO STARVE.
 |
| MYOG - maildrop identification stickers |
1) Overcompensate. For the Warner Springs maildrop, I decided---screw it. Just fill the box. Let it be too much. FILL THE BOX.
2) Stall. For Kennedy Meadows, 700 miles later, I will pack the box; pack it the way this family have been packing suitcases for the last twenty years. PACKED. Shake it. Stand on it. Keep adding things until, no matter how hard you kick that box, nothing budges. I have time to keep shopping. Trader Joe's will help. One flat-rate box might not be enough food, at that point, but there'll be a general store to supplant any glaring omissions. I'll know more by then, right? A lot more.
3) Dodge. The rest of the maildrops--the other three--the ones I won't need until July--I HEREBY ENTRUST TO MY MOTHER!
HA HA HA HA HA!
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